Now that's an enigmatic title, isn't it? Don't you hate when bloggers do that? Suck you in with some crazy-sounding title so that curiosity overwhelms you and you just HAVE to click on that link to see what on earth it could possibly mean? Staircased? What the heck is that?
Are you curious yet? Are you really curious? Yes? Well then, you'll just have to keep reading to find out.
Back in the late 80's my boyfriend had finished college and moved to Israel. Not wanting to be separated I made arrangements to spend the year here as well on a junior year abroad program. A year abroad program rather, I was only a sophomore, which is a completely irrelevent detail. Anyway...
Midway through the year my parents came over for a visit. Since they had never been to Israel before we planned a full itinerary. One of the places on our list was the city of Zfat (Safed) in the north of Israel.
To understand this story you have to understand Zfat. Zfat is a small, remote city on a mountaintop in the far north of the country, well-removed from the crush of the big city rat race; its remoteness and elevated location give it a decidedly small town feel. The type of town where if you sneeze in one neighborhood they say bless you in another. Zfat has for hundreds of years been a center for the study of kabbalah, Jewish mysticism, and is home to a number of ancient synagogues. It's a quiet, spiritual sort of place. History literally seeps from the very stones of the Old City, a rabbit's warren of tangled streets and alleys with doorways and staircases to upper story apartments jutting out at wildly improbably angles. Surrounding this small mountaintop city are empty, rocky hills.
Ok, now that we've got that out of the way we can continue with our story. Where were we? Oh yes, Jay and I were showing my parents around Israel.
Our itinerary had us staying overnight in Zfat. My parents decided to soak up some local atmosphere by attending Friday night services at one of the ancient synagogues. I was a bit concerned about their ability to navigate through the Old City, so I decided to walk them over.
I escorted them to the synagogue and then headed back to the hotel. I hadn't gone more than a few blocks when I turned a corner to find myself face to face with a big, giant COW! Right there in the middle of the Old City!
I stopped in my tracks.
I don't know how many of you are country folks, but I most certainly am not. I had never come face to face with a cow before, and let me tell you those things are HUGE. I was terrified, sure that it was going to stampede me. I'd wind up dead in that alley, gored to death by a runaway cow.
I stood there shaking as I evaluated my options. I had to get past the cow to get back to my hotel, but there was absolutely no way I was going to get up close and personal with that beast.
It looked at me and lowered it's head. My inner dialogue went into hyperdrive.
Oh god, it's going to stampede. Isn't that what they do right before they stampede? I'm dead, that's it, I'm dead. It's going to stampede me! Help!
Hold on. Wait! There are stairs behind me! Cows can't climb stairs, can they? I've never seen a cow climb stairs! I'm sure they can't climb stairs! They can't climb stairs, can they?
I quickly decided I had no other options and I dashed up a rickety metal stairway. I stood on that stairway for a good 15 minutes waiting for that cow to decide to move along. It wouldn't budge. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it turned a little. It still hadn't left, but at least it wasn't still looking at me like I was dinner. I gathered up my courage and what was left of my wits, raced down the stairs and made a mad dash around the corner! Whew! Safe! I'd made it. I wasn't going to be the main course in a cow buffet after all.
I ran all the way back to the hotel and collapsed on the bed, gasping for breath and scaring the daylights out of my boyfriend. I finally recovered enough to tell him of my brilliant escape, only to have him dissolve into utter hysterics! I thought he was going to choke he was laughing so hard. Here I thought I'd get sympathy and understanding, or at the very least a cup of tea and a "there, there dear" only to have him laugh in my face! Not only did he feel it necessary to point out that 1) cows eat grass, and 2) one cow cannot stampede, HE DIDN'T EVEN BELIEVE ME THAT I'D SEEN A COW!!! He had the nerve to insinuate that perhaps it was a dog, or maybe even a large cat, or perhaps just a child's tricycle left in the alley, because of course cows simply do not wander the streets of Zfat, not even in the Old City. To add insult to injury when my parents returned and heard my sorry tale they too collapsed in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, refusing to acknowledge even the mere possibility that a cow grazing on the nearby hillside had wandered into the city and blocked my way.
It's been 19 years since I was treed staircased by that terrifying beast and my family STILL refuses to believe me. Whenever they hear of some farfetched story they liken it to the imaginary cows of Zfat and dissolve into fits of laughter all over again. I married the boyfriend, too, who gets great delight out of telling our children how mommy sees imaginary cows whenever we pass a sign pointing to Zfat. I'm a broken woman I tell you.
You believe me though, don't you?
This story has been submitted to This Eclectic Life's This Post Blows My Dress Up! contest, on the theme "scared silly", because if a freak run-in with a ferocious girl-eating cow wouldn't scare you silly I don't know what would.------------------------------------------------------
Psst... It won! Thank you very much to Damien of Postcards from the Funny Farm for choosing it and of course to Shelly for having such a fun contest.Be sure to check out the other entries - they were fantastic! I'm really flattered to have mine chosen with such steep competition.KatelynJane’s Notebook Scared SillySusieJ entered Definitely something foul going on over there…from her archives.
Crystal at Song Of My Soul entered from her archives “Hey, at least I can laugh at myself, right?”Marcia, at Tumbled Words “The mask, three prompts combined.”Jessica at Life As I See It It’s Here
Penelope At Cafe at the End of the Universe “The Bathtub Below.”Cyn at Rage Against The Cliche “The Tears of the Phoenix.”Amy Palko at Lives Less Ordinary “Scare Silly By The Fairies.”Cindee at CiNdEe’s GaRdEn “How I Scared My Daughter Silly.”The Wandering Author “Wake Up, Little Susie.”
Motherhood is messy. It's sticky and grimy and sweaty. It's sacrifice. It's holding a sick child, knowing that that very holding will likely get you sick, and then leaning down to kiss their fevered brow anyway. It's reading Pat the Bunny for the 400th time, and still smiling when your child says "ooh, it's soft". It's diapers and potty training and sleepless nights. It's scraped knees and fevers and flu. It's tantrums and crying (sometimes even your children's). It's endless loads of laundry and constantly dirty floors. It's countless hours and vast sums of money spent in overly loud, garishly lit places with no windows watching other people's sugar-high children crash headlong into yours. Motherhood is first smiles, and laughter, and that milk drunk look babies get after they've gotten their fill at your breast. It's butterfly kisses and learning to jump. It's abc's and twinkle twinkle and look what I drew mommy. It's licking the beaters. It's snuggles and hugs and a tiny hand in yours. It's learning to swim and new backpacks for school. It's fostering self-confidence and new skills. It's jokes and laughter and love. More than anything it's love. All powerful. Transcendent. It's holding on tight. It's learning to trust. It's letting go. This was written for MamaBlogga's September group writing project, on the theme "motherhood is".
When Shelly told me that Clean Cut Blog was hosting a group writing project about your ONE first rule of writing I was intrigued. I love riffing off a theme, and I love to hear myself talk (or should that be read myself writing?), so off I went to the wilds of my keyboard to try and come up with my own very first rule of writing.Hmmm... What to pick... tap... tap tap... tap tap tap...Should it be "always spellcheck", or "always start with a hook", or "picture them in their underwear"?... (Oh wait, that one is for public speaking. Nevermind.) Perhaps it is "always follow the hero cycle" - that one worked for writing 12th grade English papers...I thought about what makes me enjoy various writers - is it the expertly crafted sentences, the fascinating subject material, the beautifully realistic dialogue?... Perhaps it's their overly zealous use of periods...No, my first rule of writing wasn't any of those. And then it became clear.My first rule of writing is to find your own voice.Sure, there are a whole lot of great writers out there, crafting beautiful turns of phrase that are a pleasure to read. I love reading a great novel, or a fascinating blog, or heck, even the back of a cereal box, and can take inspiration from all of them, but my own writing, such as it is, wouldn't ring true if it weren't written with my own voice.I believe that everyone has something to say, and that everyone CAN say it. Who better to tell a story than the person living it, either physically or within their own imagination. I'm not a professional writer (ok, I am in a way, but that's markcom, not creative writing. Ok, yes, I suppose markcom can be a form of fiction at times, but you know what I mean.) and I will never be a great writer. What I can do is be true to my inner muse, whether she wants to write long philosophical essays about nothing at all or just to document the minutiae of my children's lives.By writing in my own voice, I give you a glimpse into my world, my head, my heart. Read it if you like. I hope you will.Oh, and don't forget to spellcheck.
I had a pretty idyllic childhood - a loving family, long summers at camp, fondly remembered holiday gatherings, family vacations, ski trips, parents who put their all into raising two kids they could be proud of. I got good grades, minded my teachers, listened to my parents, didn't fight (much) with my sister... Exactly what you'd hope for in a child.And then I became a teenager, and it all went to hell. To say that I was testing my boundaries would be a gross understatement. It would be a lot more correct to say that I chose, yes chose, to fall in with a bad crowd because they were more "interesting". I wasn't interested in the goody-two-shoes smart kids, I didn't want the reputation that went (in my snobby high school anyway) with being in the marching band, I didn't have enough money to keep up with the in-crowd, and didn't really want to anyway. I wanted, or perhaps needed, to rebel, but the truth is I had a great life with great parents. I had nothing to rebel against. That didn't stop me from doing it anyway.I made a conscious decision to become a burnout, with everything that went along with that. I looked around, decided they were the most appealing group, and cultivated the habits I'd need to be included. (God I was stupid, and arrogant, and foolish, and careless, and did I mention stupid? So completely, unbelievably stupid. And so very lucky to have survived fairly unscathed.)There is no reason to detail all of my misspent youth, suffice it to say that the one-quarter of it that my parents found out enough was more than enough to ground me for life. The part they didn't know? Well that would have gotten me grounded until long after I was dead.I pulled stunts that put my parents through hell, and even today I cringe in shame at the mere memory of some of them. As I carried out my senseless rebellion my parents never wavered. No matter what I pulled, I always knew they loved me unconditionally. Even when they were unspeakably, and justifiably, angry, I always knew that they loved me and that I had a home and that that home was a moral touchstone.This wasn't true for many of the others I knew. There was B*, who was always getting thrown out of the house by his mother's new husband. Seems this cop didn't like getting a screwup burnout for a step-son. We'd all leave our cars unlocked every night in case B needed a place to crash. Then there was I*, whose parents didn't even bother showing up to his high school graduation, leaving him stranded and alone when it was over. (I drove him home, while he talked about cutting up lines of cocaine in the kitchen while his father watched, afraid to say anything.) Or A*, whose mother was so helpless that she didn't even try to exert any control over what went on in her home. Or T*, who'd share bong hits with his parents. Or J*, whose single mom was so busy working 3 jobs that she was never home long enough to know what he, what we all, got up to in her living room when we should have been in school. I could go on and on... There were of course others like my parents, who were probably just as devastated as they were at what their beautiful, formerly sweet and innocent children were getting up too, but for every loving family there was at least one more that was equally disfunctional.It took years, four of them away at college, before I was able to grow up enough to move past all of this and back towards my family. Looking at us today, 20 years later, you'd never dream of all the strife and discord that ran rampant through the house for a few years. My parents are two of my closest friends. Instead of choosing to run away, we choose to run away together - on joint vacations. On purpose. Without being forced or bribed, just because we enjoy being together. Our biggest obstacle these days is that in a fit of college-age idealism I picked up and moved halfway across the world, leaving all of my family behind. We need to work even harder to stay close emotionally since we live 6,000 miles apart physically.During one of these early joint vacations I asked my mother why she never threw my sorry ass out of the house. Her answer has stuck with me all these years. She said:"I'm your mother, and I love you, and I would NEVER EVER throw you out of my home, no matter what. I did however try to sell you to the gypsies once, but there was no market for used teenagers."She then added that had the technology been available she would have happily locked me in a deep freeze for about 6 years, not letting me out until I hit 22, but that she would have kept that freezer safe at home.I'm not in touch with many people I knew from high school anymore, but from the few that I do speak to occasionally I've seen something. We were all headed together down the wrong path in those days. The difference lay in who stayed on the path, and who managed to get themselves together and return to being happy, well-adjusted human beings.The answer? Those with loving, supportive families. It's a terrible cliche, but true nonetheless. The ones who came from very difficult places had a much harder time clawing their way out, and often didn't, while those that came from good strong families were more able to return to their roots. I look around today at my innermost circle of high school friends, the ones from families like mine, and see that we have become doctors, and lawyers (at least 3), real estate tycoons, corporate hacks turned lactation consultants (that would be me), stay at home moms... Whatever and wherever our passions led us. And you know what? We could never have done it without our families.So for all that you did Mom, by raising me right, by loving me unconditionally even when I probably didn't deserve it, and by welcoming me back with open arms and forgiving all my sins, I say "Thanks, Mom. (And Dad.)"I could never have done it without you. I love you Mom. (And Dad.)This essay was written for MamaBlogga's July Group Writing Project, on the theme "Thanks, Mom".
It must be serendipity. For the past few days I've been mulling over a post about a favorite meme question of mine, "what three qualities do you most want to instill in your children?", so when I saw that MamaBlogga's new Group Writing Project is about just that, or nearly so, I jumped on it. She asks bloggers to write on the theme of "3 things I want my children to..."I could say that I want my children to start eating vegetables, or begin to clean up after themselves without being asked, or simply to get up and dressed on time in the morning with a smile on their face. (Ha! Fat chance. I'd sooner ask for the sun to stop circling the earth. Oh wait. It's the earth that spins while the sun stands still. Nevermind. Bygones.) I could have answered in many different ways, but I couldn't pass up the chance to get all introspective and serious for a few minutes, so here it is.The three qualities I most hope to instill in my children are open-mindedness, a love of diversity, and a strong sense of self.Open-mindedness: the ability to recognize and appreciate that there are many different and varied paths to walk, the ability to see the positive in a new approach, a new way of thinking, a new solution. To take new information or ways of thinking and judge them openly and honestly, on their merits, and to not be afraid to adopt those that are judged worthy, whether they are the popular choice or just the right one. Diversity: To be accepting and gentle with those whose lives are on a different path, and to strive to see the beauty in the differences among us. To see that what unites us is so much stronger than that which divides us. To cherish and promote tolerance.A strong sense of self: To believe in themselves enough, to have a strong enough sense of their own identity, that they are able to be open-minded and value diversity, to see the beauty in the ways of others without feeling threatened or diminished, but rather strengthened and confident in their own convictions. To grow up knowing who they are, and to find joy in the lifelong discovery of what they are. And so, my children, my wish for you. Be true to yourselves, be tolerant and open-minded in your dealings with all others, and the rest will follow along.
